A Few Weeks, a Text Message, and a Story
by itsjusttoored
Summary: When straight up asking isn't enough, what else is there to do?


Charlotte muffled a yawn as she sleepily pawed at where she thought she had left her phone earlier before deciding to take a nap; finally grasping the annoyingly loud device that had, until that moment, contented itself vibrating thunderously on the table next to her bed. Squinting against the harsh light, Charlotte checked the time displayed; 18:04. Great. She'd barely slept an hour.

Mumbling under her breath about exacting unholy revenge upon whoever had decided to awake her from her slumber, Charlotte decided that identifying the cause of the racket would be a good idea so she knew who to string up by their intestines the next day. It was a text message from Sam. He was a nice enough guy. They'd only really started talking a few weeks ago on the bus, after his friends decided to see just how much they could mess with the bull before they got the horns...She had the feeling that they were getting pretty damn close.

Opening the message, she gave it a quick cursory glance, holding the phone with one hand whilst rubbing sleep out of her eyes with the other.

'_Hey, Charlotte, found this really cool story on that fanfiction site, check it out :D'_

Attached was a link to a story on . A small smile wormed its way onto Charlotte's face at that point. She'd mentioned to Sam in passing that she had a bit of a thing (*cough*obsession*cough*) for reading stories online, and they'd had a small conversation about it at the time. It was almost...sweet of him to remember, she thought to herself.

Sending back a quick reply, being eloquent the least of her concerns at the time,Charlotte opened the link on her phone and gave the page a quick look-over. The story was called 'A Few Weeks, a Text Message, and a Story' by a user called itsjusttoored. She'd never heard of him or her, and this author didn't have any reviews. In fact, the story Sam had sent her was the only one up on his account. Regardless, she gave it a quick read through, scanning the words with lightning fast eyes born from months, years of practice.

The premise of the story was relatively simple. It featured the main character, Charlotte (Charlotte, as in real Charlotte and not fanfiction Charlotte, was quite interested by the main character having her name. Maybe this was why Sam had sent it to her?) receiving a text from a friend, Sam (okay, this was starting to interest Charlotte. Did Sam write the story? This can't have been a coincidence) who had sent her a link to a story (now Charlotte's head was buzzing. Just what was going on?) and asked her to read it.

Charlotte was thoroughly confused by all of this. It was almost an exact retelling of the last few minutes of her life! How was this possible? Was it even possible? This could have some serious supernatural causes, and Charlotte herself was in the firing line! Here, Charlotte began to realize that she was reading a story posted on the Internet, and, shaking her head to rid herself of the stupid thoughts (it could be Sasquatch, a small part of her reasoned, which she promptly told to shut up), she valiantly pressed on.

Skimming over the next section where fanfiction Charlotte was having remarkably similar thoughts, she scrolled on down the page until she reached the end of the story, and read through the last paragraph or so of writing, where fanfiction Charlotte had done exactly the same thing (Casper the very unfriendly ghost, her mind whispered. She couldn't really be bothered to shut it up this time), funnily enough. Here, the perspective shifted to that of the author finishing typing up the story, and his thoughts.

She couldn't help but feel a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He had balls.

Sam sat back in his chair and rolled his shoulders in an effort to lessen the ache inhabiting his upper back. As always, it didn't work, but he persisted anyway, as he always did. Leaning forwards once more, straining his eyes to read the small print on the computer screen, Sam read through his effort. It was no walk in the park; despite the planning, it was surprisingly difficult to write a story containing a theoretically infinite number of 'universes' and keep the flow going and the space-time continuum from collapsing in on itself and brutally smashing everyone into atoms.

He'd probably have to rewrite the story too, if that were the case. He did not really want to do that again.

Reaching the sort-of end of his story, Sam grinned at the computer screen. A memory flashed before his eyes, a text message. He knew that if he wanted a yes then it all depended on how he asked it. Sam was relatively sure that this was a fairly unique way of asking a question. After all, who goes through the process of writing a entire story for a single question?

Looking back at the sort-of end and rolling his shoulders back once more, Sam decided it was time to finish the story off. In a way, he was quite proud of himself; he thought he'd done a pretty good job, considering he hadn't written anything properly for almost three years. In fact, he quite enjoyed it, flexing that lingual muscle was always fun, and it was good mental stimulation for him.

Quickly stifling a yawn and checking the time with bleary eyes (23:52? Damn, where did the time go?), Sam moved to lean forwards in his chair for the last time that Friday night, and quickly typed out the last sentence before smiling to himself. In the story, the author asked this question to Charlotte. Or was he asking this question, and just being written about by another author, another Sam? He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and tried to chase away the ensuing headache and existential crisis.

Ahem. Getting off-topic. The end of the story. The question. Yes.

Would you consider going out with me, Charlotte?


End file.
